I have been reading Ada Limón’s latest poetry collection, The Hurting Kind, over the past two days the way it is meant to be read: aloud, into the quiet of my room, to the cat, imagining my floorboards are a field dotted with wildflowers, unanchored to the detailed problems of my life or the needs of everyone around me (see below) for as long as those covers are open.
Miraculously, Mercilessly
Miraculously, Mercilessly
Miraculously, Mercilessly
I have been reading Ada Limón’s latest poetry collection, The Hurting Kind, over the past two days the way it is meant to be read: aloud, into the quiet of my room, to the cat, imagining my floorboards are a field dotted with wildflowers, unanchored to the detailed problems of my life or the needs of everyone around me (see below) for as long as those covers are open.